


Dreaming in Blue

by For_That_Cotton_Candy



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/For_That_Cotton_Candy/pseuds/For_That_Cotton_Candy
Summary: Wesley looked at Illyria, who tilted her head and looked back expectantly, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he should feel relieved or guilty that it didn’t hurt nearly as much to look at her anymore.In fact, it really didn’t hurt at all.





	

“Dreaming In Blue”  
AtS Future Fic  
Pairing: Wesley/Illyria  
Rating: Adult, for Language  
Notes: Set three years after ‘Not Fade Away.’ For , as part of the Happy Wes Ficathon. Hope this fits the bill!

 

“Illyria? Illyria. Illyria. Illyria!”

She looked up from her work and stared at Angel, and for a brief moment he marveled once again the metamorphosis she was undergoing, the blue in her hair becoming more pronounced so that there was very little of the brown left, the blue deepening almost to black and taking on a silky sheen; the color on her face seeming to shift, even to move, it would darken and then lighten depending upon her mood or the light; and the icy tint of her eyes had changed to a deep, iridescent indigo blue edged with black. It was beautiful. _She_ was beautiful.

***

But her beauty, however, did not change the fact that she’d fallen in love with his stapler and was now insisting on stapling every piece of paperwork that came into his office, whether it needed to be stapled or not. She worked like a seamstress, staples running around all four edges of the paper like a thin, metallic, decorative hem, making it impossible to read anything unless he pulled out the staple remover and carefully plucked out each and every staple. 

Nothing he’d done had worked. He’d hidden the stapler; explained to her that he appreciated her help but _nobody_ needed this much stapling; had asked her to please put just _one_ staple in the upper left corner, but she hadn’t listened. He’d even resorted to sleeping with the stapler, but somehow she’d always manage to sneak past him and get it, which still mystified him; for a while, every day, he’d gone for a drive in the evening and tossed the stapler out the window while cruising down the freeway, but the next day it would be back in her hands, the same damned stapler and staples all over the place.

She’d even scratched through his name and had written all over it in big, black letters: _‘Illyria’s Stapler – Touch and Die a Thousand Deaths.’_

He’d gritted his teeth and tried to work with it, but it was getting to the point that he suspected some sort of stapler conspiracy was going on and that this was probably all Spike’s fault. Now, most of the time and to his great embarrassment, he found himself giving in to his frustration, and he cursed and struggled and finally ended up ripping everything apart, bits of paper littering his office, in the end, rendering all the paperwork useless anyway. He would growl, throw things and tear at the staples with his teeth while Illyria stood in the corner watching with great interest.

“That is not necessary,” she would say. “Simply peel back the paper as if flaying the flesh of . . .”

“GET OUT OF HERE, ILLYRIA!”

“Admit it, Blue,” Spike had whispered one day as they’d watched Angel glower as he stood in a shower of paperwork confetti. “You do that just to make him crazy, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she had said, and Spike had been surprised to see the barest hint of a smile on her face as she watched Angel closely. “It amuses me that tiny bits of metal make him so angry. His face closes up and he breathes deeply and heavily, even though he does not need to. And he looks at me as if he wishes to kill me. You and Gunn and Wesley are not as easily infuriated and therefore as not interesting. And the stapler itself, it’s very enjoyable. It is mine now.”

Spike had grinned and had thought about getting her a nail gun, but he didn’t fancy a stake to the heart just yet, so he just told her to keep up the good work. So she did.

***

“Illyria, listen,” Angel said, sighing and scrubbing at his eyes. “I’ve told you a million times about the damned stapler. _Stop_ stapling. Please. Or . . . how about paper clips, those are fun, right?”

“I am bored. Stapling is something I find pleasurable. And paper clips are for the weak, they are impermanent and . . .”

“Illyria. Surely there’s something else you find pleasurable. Somewhere _else_.”

“I find fighting pleasurable. Find something for me to kill. We have not engaged in battle for a long while.”

“I know, Illyria, but that’s a _good_ thing.”

She stared at him for a moment longer and then went back to stapling, placing one in the very center of the invoice and stapling it to the table she was seated at.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Angel muttered. “SPIKE!”

Spike popped his head in, scowling. “WHAT?”

“Could you take Illyria . . . _somewhere?_ Please?”

“Can’t. In the middle of a poker game with Gunn, I’m up six kittens. Besides, it’s _daylight,_ you stupid ponce.”

Angel buried his face in his hands and sighed heavily and Spike grinned when he saw the faintest hint of a smile ghost across Illyria’s face.

“Spike . . .” Angel hissed in the manner of a man about to kill himself or someone else, perhaps both.

“Oh, fine, you twit. Come along, Blue, enough poking the big broody vampire with staples for one day,” Spike said, holding out his hand. She stared at him a moment, then stood up slowly and took his hand.

***

“Wes! Wes! WES!”

“For God’s sake, Spike, I’m right here, there’s no need to shout,” Wesley said absently, involved in the research spread across his desk.

“Right, listen, Blue here’s drivin’ Angel crazy,” Spike said.

Wesley looked up, a glint in his eyes. “Staples.”

Spike grinned. “Yeah. Makin’ him act like a big bloody ape. A _loud_ ape. Anyway, wanna take her out and about? Me and Gunn are in the middle of somethin’.”

“Dammit, Spike, this cat just _pissed_ on me!” came the bellow from the lobby of the Hyperion, accompanied by a chorus of mewls. “I thought were talkin’ metaphoric kittens or somethin’! You are _so_ payin’ for this shirt, I _love_ this shirt!” Gunn sneezed, loudly. “DAMN! And did I mention I’m fuckin’ _allergic?_ Get off me, you satanic little ball of fur! These aren’t kittens, they’re _demons_ , that’s it, I’m gettin’ the weapons!”

“HEY! Hang on!” Spike bellowed back. He turned to Wesley. “Well?”

Wesley looked at Illyria, who tilted her head and looked back expectantly, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he should feel relieved or guilty that it didn’t hurt nearly as much to look at her anymore.

In fact, it really didn’t hurt at all.

***

It had become a daily ritual, Illyria would drive Angel to the point of insanity and then Wesley, usually, would be asked to escort her out of the Hyperion until Angel calmed down and had claimed victory in his battle with the staples, and Wesley would walk and Illyria would talk, making observations and asking questions, some he could answer and some he could not, and her fascination with humanity had been growing - sometimes, to his surprise, she sounded almost envious.

“I am hot.”

“Illyria, considering the way your physiology is changing, perhaps you should consider clothing a bit more appropriate than that,” Wesley said, poking at the forearm of her bodysuit as they strolled down the sidewalk in the heat of the midday sun.

“The witch was going to take me to look for clothes before she was called away,” Illyria said.

“Willow? She was?”

“Yes. She showed me other things while she was here, however.”

“Really? Such as?”

“She let me watch as she bathed.”

Wesley stumbled a bit and coughed. “Why on earth would she do that?”

“She said there were things I needed to know. She said I should watch as she took a razor to her legs and underneath her arms and between her legs . . .”

Wesley tripped.

“ . . . and she looks very different than me, her body. The shape, the color of her skin and her hair. Different, but still very beautiful. She told me all bodies are different, but the same. She allowed me to touch her, she was soft some places and firmer in others, but her skin was soft all over.”

Wesley’s eyebrows shot up. “You . . . _touched_ her?”

“Yes. I was curious so I asked if I could do so and she said yes. And she laughed when I touched her ribs, she said she was ticklish. She asked if I was but I don’t know, I don’t think so,” Illryia said, frowning as she thought. “And she did something to my eyebrows, which hurt, but I allowed her to do it because she warned me beforehand and because I thought I would enjoy the pain and I did. I am unsure why. I wish that she could have stayed and shown me more pain, so that I could understand why I liked it so much and why I wanted more of it.”

Wesley leaned back against a building and bent over, hands on his knees, mentally batting away the rather embarrassing erotic images that were flitting through his mind. It had been too long, he thought, that must be the reason why his brain was so easily led in such directions of late.

“Are you all right?” she asked, looking at him quizzically. “Your face is flushed.”

“Fine, fine, I’m fine,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Just give me a moment.”

“She also put color on her nails. She also bought some of the paint for me.”

“Did she?” Wesley asked, still trying to pull the brakes on the thoughts which were determinedly heading toward some rather inappropriate places.

“Yes,” Illryia said, suddenly plopping down in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the gawking pedestrians who squeezed and shoved their way around them, struggling with one boot. When her foot was freed she propped it on Wesley’s knee. “This is it,” she said, wiggling her toes.

Wesley stared at her foot, small and pale with a just a hint of blue along a high arch, and toenails painted a deep, dark blue with a slight metallic sheen.

“Blue,” he said.

“Only Spike may call me that,” she scolded. He looked at her and almost smiled at her misunderstanding, but something about the look on her face made him wonder if she had done it deliberately. Such things were happening more and more, the comments she made and the things that she did all seemed to point to the fact that she was developing a sense of humor, especially her determination to drive Angel absolutely insane with the stapler. Wesley suspected she probably had had one all along and simply hadn’t known how to fit it into this world until lately.

“No, Illyria, I mean the color on your toenails. It’s blue,” he said.

She peered up at him. “The color is called ‘Deep Depression,’ according to the bottle.”

He put one hand over his mouth to hide a smile. “I see.”

“She said it matched my hair. And after she let me watch her bathe, then she bathed me, used the razor and . . .”

His eyes narrowed. “Illyria . . .”

“She said it was like giving an infant a bath. I was angry at first, because I am _not_ a child, as you are well aware, but she explained that she meant she felt like she were my teacher, because I was unfamiliar with these things, and I found that acceptable.”

Wesley sighed and scolded himself. Of course Willow wouldn’t have done anything inappropriate, that had been one of the reasons they’d asked her to come in the first place. As Illyria’s body had started to change and she’d started asking questions about it, they had been fine, initially, and Angel, actually, had helped her quite a bit in the beginning, but as things began to get more deeply personal Angel had made a panicked midnight phone call to Giles, who, after laughing until he couldn’t breathe, had sent Willow along to help, since she was the only woman Illyria had met so far that she actually seemed to like.

“And so,” Illyria said, interrupting his train of thought, pulling on her boot and getting to her feet. “I have continued to do these things, even though the witch said they were all a matter of choice. I choose to do them, I like it. With bubbles.”

“Bubbles.”

“In the water.”

“Ah,” he said, taking her hand, something he found himself doing more and more often of late. “Why don’t you paint your fingernails?” he asked, running his thumb across the top of her hand, still amazed by the way she’d become so soft and pliant over the past three months.

She scowled. “Because it is difficult. I get the paint all over my fingers. I become angry and frustrated, like Angel when he finds that I have stapled things to his chair.”

Wesley put a hand to his mouth, grinning, and remembered the morning Angel had come downstairs to find every blank check ripped out of the AI corporate checkbook and stapled all over his chair like upholstery and the ensuing scene of destruction as Angel had torn apart the rest of his office in fury, and how Gunn and Spike had howled in laughter, Spike literally rolling on the floor, while Wes had smiled and watched Illyria as she had watched Angel with the barest hint of satisfaction.

“Why do you do that?” she asked, frowning up at him.

“Do what?”

“Hide. When you are amused you hide it. When Gunn and Spike are amused they laugh, loudly. Even Angel, though rarely. But you never do.”

Wesley sighed and stared down at her hand, his thumb still brushing across her skin. “I don’t know, Illyria. I suppose it’s simply because I haven’t felt much like laughing.”

“You’re getting better. You smile more often. But stop hiding it, it makes me angry,” she said, scowling.

He smiled at her, full on. He _had_ been feeling better over the past several months, quite a bit, actually. But it still felt as if he’d yet to take that final step, to finally let go of Fred and let her rest, instead of curling up with her memory every night. And he knew, that at this point, his insistence on clinging to Fred no longer had anything to do with Illyria, and everything to do with the fact that letting go felt like betrayal. 

He found that of late, when he looked at Illyria he no longer really saw Fred. Illyria was determinedly becoming her own person. The hint of Fred left behind was like a faded image superimposed on the colorful vibrancy that was Illyria. Fred’s vitality, her sweetness and her energy was tucked away in his apartment, on videotape and in photographs, and in his memory and in his heart - but not here, not with this woman, not anymore.

“I’ll try, Illyria,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully. “But only if you try, as well. I’ve seen you smile, on occasion, but I have never heard you laugh.”

“When I am amused enough to laugh, I promise to do so,” she said earnestly.

“I suspect that you actually laugh quite a lot, internally,” he said, studying her face.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, tilting her head, and yes, there it was, a flash of amusement.

“Right, then,” he said, still smiling, and started to drop her hand but she held him fast.

“No, don’t stop. I like that. It reminds me of the witch running her hands up and down my legs in the bath,” she said, striding off and pulling him along with her, and again he closed his eyes and sighed and tried to think of England.

***

“Oh! Wesley!”

He found himself shoved up against a fence, Illyria plastered to his side, and with what seemed to be a look of sheer terror on her face. “Illyria? What is it?”

“That,” she whispered, gesturing at two young boys with ice cream cones.

He frowned, puzzled. “You’re frightened of those children?”

She straightened suddenly, the haughtiness returning. “Of course I am not frightened of _children._ I am not frightened of anything. I simply do not understand why they are allowed to handle such a dangerous concoction. You should go save them.”

“Save them from _what?_ What dangerous concoction?” he asked, staring after the boys in confusion.

“The _ice cream,”_ Illyria said, lowering her voice. “I was made to understand that parents _cared_ for their children.”

“Well, they do,” he said. Then he sighed. “Most do, at any rate. But what does that have to do with ice cream?”

She glared at him. “It is dangerous. Both Willow and Spike told me so. Don’t tell me you were unaware of that fact.”

“Dangerous? Dangerous how?” he asked, now completely puzzled. He could imagine Spike saying such a thing to her, but Willow as well?

“It causes your brain to freeze!” she hissed. “And it hurts, there is pain! When the witch was here she had some and bent over double, moaning and holding her head and saying ‘brain freeze’ over and over! I asked her why she would consume something that causes such pain and she said it was because the pleasure was worth it.”

He grinned and moved to cover his mouth but she grabbed his hand and stopped him.

“I told you not to do that!”

“Right. Sorry,” he said, still grinning.

“I do not, however, like the fact that you are mocking me,” she said, scowling.

“I’m not mocking you, Illyria,” he said, still grinning. “You misunderstood Willow and Spike. Ice cream does _not_ cause your brain to freeze.”

“Then why did Willow feel such pain?” she asked, glaring at him suspiciously.

“It’s physiological,” Wesley said, searching his own brain for the theory behind ice cream headaches. “ ‘Brain freeze’ is just a slang term for the headache ice cream can cause. And it’s not just ice cream, anything cold can cause that kind of headache. If I remember correctly, when something cold touches the roof of your mouth on a hot day, it triggers a cold headache. The cause is a dilation of blood vessels in the head. The dilation may be caused by a nerve center located above the roof of your mouth -- when this nerve center gets cold, it seems to overreact and tries to heat your brain.”

“So instead of freezing your brain, ice cream _overheats_ it?” she asked, stupefied. “Then why do so many people insist on eating it? And giving it to their children?”

“It only lasts a moment, Illyria, and doesn’t cause any damage,” he said, still smiling. “And as Willow said, the pain is worth the pleasure.”

“She did seem to enjoy it a great deal. She made noises like the noises of sex in the movies she showed me.”

Again he tripped. _“What?”_

She stared at him. “She knew you’d react in such a manner. Since you weren’t here when she left, she said I should tell you that she showed me ‘tapes, you know, like Sex-Ed,’ she meant sexual education, I think, she mentioned that it was taught to young people and then she talked a lot and very loudly about contraception and other things and she cursed this country’s leadership, and after that she then showed me romantic movies, ‘nothin’ above an R rating,’ that is what she said to tell you.”

He collapsed on to an empty bench. “And how did that come about?” he asked, not sure if he really wanted to know.

“She thought I needed to know, because of the way I’ve been changing, because of all the questions I asked her. Because I know of your feelings for Fred. Because Willow kept speaking of her girlfriend. Because I hear Spike and Angel together in the night. Because I want to understand about love and sex – it’s still hard to comprehend, she told me there are many kinds of love, love for your friends, love for your family, love for animals and movies and music, love for almost anything, and romantic love.” She sat down beside him. “I’ve thought about what I love. I love Spike, for many reasons, but I really love him when he comes to me with ideas about stapling. I love the way Gunn smiles at me in the morning when he brings me breakfast, the way he ruffles my hair. I love making Angel angry, but I also love it when he apologizes for getting angry, he looks soft, it makes me want to touch his face or put my arms around him. I love painting my toenails. I love going on these walks with Gunn or Spike, but you especially.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Why me, especially?”

“Because they can’t answer my questions, instead they just buy me food or boxes of staples.”

He smiled and then sighed. “Illyria . . . Willow was very thoughtful, it seems, and did a great deal to help you while she was here, but wouldn’t it be easier if . . .”

She turned her face away. “It would be easier, yes. But her memories are fading, it’s been three years. And I’m afraid . . .”

He stared at her. “Afraid of what?” he whispered.

“Of becoming her.” She turned and looked at him. “I understand that you loved her; that all of you did. And I have . . . come to feel regret about what happened, about causing all of you such pain. And I know her, now, after living like this for so long,” she said, looking down at herself. “But Wesley, I am _not_ her. And I do not want to be her, no matter how much the rest of you might wish it to be different.” She looked down at her feet. “I would apologize, but I don’t feel as if I should have to apologize for being who I am.”

“No, I don’t think you should, either,” he said quietly. “But you said you feel regret for what happened to Fred.”

“Yes.”

He looked down at his hands. “Would you do it again, knowing all that you know now?”

She stared out into the distance. “I am starting to enjoy this world. I am starting to appreciate humanity and being human and I have no desire to leave, not any more. I like being here.” She sighed. “But no. I would not do it again, whether it was Fred I hurt or someone else.”

He was silent for a long time, staring at her thoughtfully. “Why?”

She looked at him. “Because of you. After the Slayers came and the battle with the armies of the Black Thorn was won, when you almost died, as Angel paced the corridors of the hospital, he was convinced you _were_ going to die . . . I watched him, saw the pain that he was in, and it mirrored my own, and it was then that I started to really understand what I had done, what you must have felt when I took her from you.”

Wesley sighed and sat back, crossing his arms and staring at the ground.

“Do you still hate me? For what I did? It doesn’t seem as if you do,” she said, a hint of hesitancy in her voice.

He looked at her for a long time. “No,” he said, finally. “I did, at the time, and for a long while after that, and I would have done anything to get her back, no matter what that would have meant for you.” 

“I know. And I believe now that I would feel the same, should something happen to you or Spike or Gunn or Angel. Or Willow,” she said, her eyes searching his face.

He smiled slightly and sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “I understand now, Illyria, that I can’t really blame you for simply being what you were, for doing what you felt necessary to survive – all beings do whatever it takes to survive. And now . . . the grief has lessened. It will always be there but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did.” 

“I like that you feel better,” she said. “It has been a long time, and I don’t like being the reason you did not smile or laugh or sleep.”

He sighed. “I believe that I’m finally remembering how to do all those things,” he said. “I’m remembering that I can smile and laugh and sleep and still remember her; that laughing doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her or what happened; that enjoying life, that is, if I had much of one to enjoy, wouldn’t mean that I was dishonoring her.”

She looked at him with something akin to shock. “Of course not!” she said. “You forget how well I know her. She would have wanted laughter, _your_ laughter, she would have wanted _all_ of you to be happy – she wanted all of this while she was still with you, I would have thought that would have been obvious.”

He rubbed at his jaw. “Yes, I suppose it was,” he said softly.

They sat in silence for a while before Wesley stood up abruptly and held out his hand.

“Where are we going?” Illyria asked, taking his hand.

“Shopping,” he said. “And then, ice cream.”

He grinned at the look of horror on her face.

***

She came out of the shop dressed in blue jeans, a dark blue tank top that displayed the soft tint of blue that swirled softly down the sides of her neck and across her chest and shadowed lightly down her arms, and bright yellow sandals. 

He stared. She was beautiful. He’d never seen her without the bodysuit, and he wondered how it was possible that she could look so completely different and still be so much herself. And now, amazingly, in regular clothing the hint of Fred became even fainter. This was Illyria, fully herself.

She walked over to where he was sitting and waved one of her feet under his nose. “I feel much better. And now everyone can see the color on my toes,” she said, tilting her head and admiring her shoes.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You look lovely.”

She looked at him wide-eyed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.

“No . . . I mean, yes, it’s just that I feel . . . embarrassed, I think? And I’m unsure of what to say to that,” she said.

“ ‘Thank you’ would be sufficient, I should think,” he said, grinning, gathering up the rest of her bags. “And there’s no need for embarrassment.”

“Thank you,” she said firmly. “You look lovely, as well.”

He stared at her in shock.

“Well, you do,” she said. “Your shirt matches your eyes. You have beautiful eyes.”

He stared and was silent as he digested this. She thought he had beautiful eyes. Well, he thought a bit smugly, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard that before, it was just . . .

“Well?” she prompted, glaring, interrupting his train of thought.

“Uh, oh, sorry. Thank you very much, Illyria,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “You have beautiful eyes as well.”

“Thank you,” she said immediately. “I like your beard.”

“Thank you,” he said, grinning. “I love your hair.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling now herself. “I like your smile.”

“All right, all right, enough,” he said, a bit flustered in spite of himself.

“No, you owe me one more,” she said, crossing her arms and waiting. 

He sighed. “You’ve got beautiful feet. There, are we done now? This could go on all day.”

“We are done. For now. Thank you,” she said primly. “Now you must go give that tiresome woman in the shop your credit card before she comes out here and annoys me further to the point I must do violence.”

He rolled his beautiful eyes and went inside to do so.

***

She glowered, her eyes full of suspicion.

“I promise you, Illyria, it’s perfectly safe,” he said for the fifth time. “And it’s starting to melt. Go on, now, just remember to go slowly . . . Illyria!”

He was too late and he watched in dread as she took a huge bite out of the ice cream like she was taking a bite out of an apple. She winced immediately, her hand going to her mouth, and then both hands went to her head as her eyes filled with tears.

“You _do_ hate me!” she snarled, glaring at the ice cream cone she’d dropped to the ground and then stomping on it viciously. “That hurt not only my head but my teeth! This is _not_ the kind of pain I enjoy!”

He sighed in exasperation. “I do _not_ hate you, Illryia, I tried to tell you to go slowly, and you don’t bite it, you _lick_ it, like this,” he said, demonstrating. She watched closely through narrowed eyes. “See? I’m fine. Now will you try again?” he asked. “Trust me.”

She stared at him for a long time. “Very well.”

He walked back to the ice cream stand and ordered another chocolate cone, soft serve and easier to lick, and then returned to her where she stood defiantly with her arms crossed and one hip jutting out, the tank top riding up just enough to show her belly, and he was surprised to note that she was much softer than Fred had been – not fat by any means, just softer, the line of her neck and her arms and the swelling of her hips. He shook his head to clear it and offered her the ice cream.

“Lick it,” he said sternly. “No biting. Go slowly.”

She looked at him, eyes still full of suspicion, then she grabbed it out of his hand and tentatively put her tongue to it, like a kitten lapping at milk. She whirled her tongue around her mouth and tilted her head, considering the taste, and her next lick was more confident, a long swipe from bottom to tip, and she drew the ice cream into her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mmmf,” she said, not looking at him, and now going at the ice cream enthusiastically with long, slow strokes with her tongue and with soft murmurs of satisfaction, and as he watched her in her chocolate ice cream ecstasy he shifted uncomfortably and wondered if this had been such a good idea on top of all the other odd sparking that had gone on between them that day, that had, in fact, been going on for months now; moments here and there when he would look up and find her staring at him, the way he'd begun to touch her more often and with more ease, thoughts of her invading his dreams. He sighed and scolded himself for falling prey to the ‘beautiful woman licking an ice cream cone’ cliché. He’d hoped he’d become a bit less predictable than that, but yet, here he was, becoming more than a bit aroused watching Illyria eat her first ice cream cone.

She finished finally, and held up the cone in front of her and looked at it thoughtfully. “I understand it now,” she said softly.

“You’re supposed to eat the cone as well,” he said, pulling his handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiping away the chocolate on her chin. She looked at him with those eyes and his breath caught, and he was amazed once more at how lovely they were, and she smiled.

“I don’t want this part,” she said, tossing the cone on the ground. He sighed and picked it up and searched for a trash bin and threw the cone away. “I would like some more ice cream, though. Get me some,” she ordered.

“You haven’t completely lost the god king imperiousness, have you?” he muttered.

“No. But if it’s absolutely necessary, then _please_ get me some more ice cream,” she said. “Now!”

He sighed. “One more, that’s it,” he grumbled, shaking one finger at her.

***

Five ice cream cones later and they were headed back to the Hyperion as the sun started to set when Wes stopped suddenly. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling out his cell phone. “I completely forgot!”

“Forgot what?” Illyria asked, sleepy-eyed from all the walking and the ice cream.

“Tomorrow,” he said, dialing quickly. He put the phone to his ear. “Spike! About tomorrow . . . I wasn’t sure if you had . . . No? . . . We’ll do the usual then, tomorrow evening? Right.” Then he cast a glance at Illyria and smiled slyly. “And Spike, I have an idea . . .”

***

When Cordelia had still been alive she’d insisted on celebrating Angel’s birthday, even though he had no idea when the date actually was, so she’d picked a day in June so they could celebrate outside in the courtyard. It had become tradition, and when Spike had joined them Angel had insisted that Spike be made to wear paper hats and blow out candles and be humiliated as well. And so Spike, not finding any of it one bit humiliating and instead quite enjoying the attention, had picked Christmas Day, so that he could, as he put it, ‘get twice the pressies for half of the work and none of this here’s your Christmas _and_ birthday pressie, right, _two,_ one for my birthday and one for Christmas, got it?’ Wesley was almost positive that Spike actually did remember his birth date and that he did, indeed, just want twice the attention and twice the presents.

But tomorrow was Angel’s birthday, and in addition to buying quite a lot of liquor and food and a cake that Angel would never eat, Wesley and Illyria made one last stop to buy the humiliating paper hats, candles, other party favors, and some other very special things.

***

Wesley popped his head in the door and looked around.

“All clear,” Spike hissed. “But hurry, he’s comin’ right back!”

Wesley and Illyria made a mad dash for her room.

***

“What is your plan for all this?” Illyria asked, going through the bags.

Wesley told her and she smiled, then the smile turned into a full-fledged grin, and he couldn’t help but grin back.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile like that. You look beautiful,” he said softly and her eyes, those incredible eyes, lit up.

“Thank you,” she said immediately. “You look beautiful as well.”

He flushed in spite of himself. “Thank you,” he said, shoving her aside so he could sit beside her on the sofa, rummaging through the bags. “Now, let’s leave the rest of this here for the moment and go show the others your new clothes, shall we?”

“That would please me greatly!” she said, bouncing up and down slightly on the sofa.

***

Gunn, Spike and Angel all three fussed over her and her clothes, Spike twirling her around and waltzing her across the floor and threatening to leave Angel for her, and Angel glowered and snatched her away and claimed that he’d seen her first and that he was going to marry her, staples or no, and then Gunn had chimed in and said that she needed a man, not a vampire, and he was first up, and she had smiled at all of them and then stepped away imperiously and said that she had other plans, but thank you anyway.

The three of them turned as one to Wesley, who just shrugged and smiled slightly, and then Gunn had offered her his poker winnings, a fluffy black kitten with a white nose and four white paws, and she took it gingerly in her hands and had seemed to practically melt even as it clawed and hissed at her.

The rest of them had smiled at each other. “What’re you gonna name it, love?” Spike asked.

“Angel,” she said without hesitating. “Because it is fierce.” And Spike had scowled and Gunn had rolled his eyes and Angel had grinned goofily and Wesley had simply watched her and wondered.

It was amazing, he thought, how things between all of them had changed so much these past three years, and for so much the better, despite their losses.

***

“You are staying the for the night?” she asked as Wesley settled on her sofa with a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“Yes. I didn’t want to go home and fall asleep and then have to come back here in the middle of the night,” he said, pouring her a tiny bit of scotch and a healthier dose for himself. “I’ll take the room next door.”

“All right,” she said, plopping down on the sofa beside him and dragging the kitten with her. “I had a very nice day today and I did not wish for you to leave. What shall we do now?”

He handed her the scotch and she downed it without flinching. “Careful, Illyria, you should sip it,” he said, pouring her a bit more. “We don’t want you drunk later on.”

“Right,” she said, downing the rest. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “More. Now!” she demanded.

“For Christ’s sake, Illyria,” he grumbled, pouring more.

This time she sipped. “What will we do until it is time?” she asked.

He studied her hands. “Why don’t you run and get that nail polish?” he said.

She grinned again and carefully placed the now purring kitten in his lap and darted away.

***

He had just started on the ring finger of her right hand when the ruckus started two doors down. They were either fucking or fighting, probably some combination of both, he thought, and he winced on her behalf.

“Jesus, Illyria, do you have to listen to that every night?” he asked, blowing on her fingernails.

“Yes,” she said absently, wriggling at the feel of his breath against her hand and watching in fascination as he started working on the next finger.

He frowned. “Doesn’t it bother you? Perhaps you should move to another wing of the hotel,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she said, still watching as he painted her nails. “I like it. It makes me feel less lonely.”

He paused for a moment and stared at her, then squeezed her hand carefully before resuming his work on her nails.

***

He had fallen asleep on the corner of the couch, his hand in her hair where her head rested in his lap, her hands hanging off the couch at an awkward angle in order to avoid messing up her manicure and Angel the kitten sprawled across her ass, when the door opened.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Spike hissed, poking at them both. “It’s time.”

***

Gunn had stayed as well, and Spike kept watch as the three of them did their work, shushing them occasionally when they got too loud, and finally, after two hours, they were done, Gunn staggering up the stairs tiredly after they promised to wake him on time, and Spike scurrying back to his and Angel’s room.

Wesley and Illyria collapsed on one of the sofas, one that would be well out of Angel’s line of sight when he came downstairs in a couple of hours.

“You’re certain you don’t want to go back to your room, get some sleep?” Wesley whispered, gently pushing her hair out of her face.

“I am certain,” she whispered back. “I will stay here.”

He grabbed her chin gently. “I still haven’t heard you laugh,” he murmured, and without thinking he started running his thumb across her bottom lip.

“I think that perhaps you will in the morning,” she said, a bit breathless, and her eyes and her scent and the feel of her mouth was pulling him forward and he wanted nothing more in the world than to kiss her, to feel her lips against his.

“No,” she whispered, pushing him away by putting her hand to his chest. “When you kiss me, I want you to kiss _me_ , Wesley, me.”

He smiled slightly, his eyes heavy-lidded, and he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away, and leaned in and kissed her, softly at first, tentatively, and she pulled away and stared at him. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I’m kissing you, Illyria. _You_ ,” he whispered, and she stared at him for a long time.

“You really are, aren’t you?” she asked, those amazing eyes searching his face.

“Yes. _You,”_ he said, grinning, and then he pulled her atop him and kissed her thoroughly, his body singing at the way she responded, with her mouth, with her body, with her voice, and then again she was pulling away and he groaned in protest, grabbing at her playfully.

“No,” she said, smiling. “Slowly.”

He scowled. “Not _too_ slowly, I hope,” he said, tired and slightly drunk and pouting, something he’d sworn he’d never do again.

“No. Just slow enough,” she said, smiling and brushing the back of her hand across his cheek, and then she sat up suddenly.

“What?” he asked, still pouting.

“I will be back,” she said and disappeared.

He was almost asleep when she came back and he smiled at her through half-closed eyes and wrapped his arms around her and a purring Angel as she curled up next to him.

***

“BLOODY NICE MORNIN’, AIN’T IT, LOVE?” Spike bellowed as he stomped down the stairs ahead of Angel. Wesley and Illyria jumped, suddenly awake, and then Illyria darted up the stairs to get Gunn.

“Spike, why in the hell are you yelling?” Angel barked.

“JUST FEELIN’ NICE THIS MORNIN’, PET!” Stomp, stomp, stomp. “GAVE ME A RIGHT GOOD NIGHT, DIDN’T YOU?”

“For God’s sake,” Angel muttered, and Wesley grinned as Illyria and Gunn joined him, peeking over the back of the couch as Angel shoved Spike out of the way and stalked toward his office, his head down and his eyes on the floor. The three of them grabbed on to each other tightly as he reached the door to his office and reached for the doorknob.

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE!” Angel bellowed, spinning around to face Spike. “REALLY FUCKING FUNNY, YOU ASSHOLE!”

Spike pouted, the very picture of innocence. “Why, pet, I have no idea what you mean!”

“WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I MEAN? MY ENTIRE FUCKING OFFICE IS STAPLED OVER WITH WRAPPING PAPER THAT SAYS _‘HAVE A GOOD ONE, BIRTHDAY BOY!’”_

“Think that’s bad, love?” Spike said, grinning. “Wait ‘til you unwrap it.”

Angel glared, and Wesley could practically feel the fury pouring off him and, for a moment, he thought about grabbing Illyria and Gunn and the kitten and making a run for it, but he was too late. Angel had ripped the wrapping off his office door and was staring inside in shock.

Everything was stapled over in bright blue wrapping paper; his desk, his chair, all of the furniture, even the walls, the floor and the ceiling. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Angel muttered, closing his eyes and leaning against the door of his office.

Gunn popped up from behind the couch. “Happy birthday, man!” he said, grinning, flinging his arms out wide.

Wesley and Illryia popped up as well. “Yes, Angel, many happy returns,” Wesley said, one foot back, ready to run if he had to.

“We used 600 boxes of staples,” Illyria said, clutching the kitten tightly. “Do you like it? We worked very hard, all through the night.”

Spike grinned and descended the last three steps. “Can’t work now, can you love? Got you to myself, all day.”

Angel sighed a pained sigh, and then opened his eyes and looked at all of them in turn. “You assholes, I can’t believe . . .”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought because suddenly he was dogpiled, Spike taking him down and Gunn landing on top of them both heavily and grinning like a madman, and then Wesley dove in, dragging Illyria with him, and Angel bellowed and writhed and struck out, but not nearly as hard as he could have, and finally he shook them all off and hauled himself to his feet, glaring.

“I hate you guys,” he said mildly, and then he smiled, very slightly, and the rest of them grinned.

Spike wrapped his arms around Angel’s neck and kissed him soundly. “Figured you could take a day off. Got plans for you,” he whispered and Gunn made fake gagging sounds.

“I’m outta here, gonna get some sleep,” Gunn said. “You guys just make sure you got your clothes back on when I get back, please? I’m plannin’ on some serious drinkin’ tonight.” He turned and started to leave and then Wesley spoke.

“You know,” Wesley said, turning to Illyria. “I still haven’t heard you laugh.”

“No,” she said. “You haven’t.”

He started advancing on her. “You said yesterday that you didn’t know if you were ticklish,” he said, and her eyes widened when suddenly _all_ of them were staring at her speculatively over Wesley’s shoulders.

“Well, no, I don’t know, I . . .”

Wesley pounced, going for her ribs, while Gunn tickled her under her arms and Spike went for her knees and Angel attacked her feet, and suddenly she was shrieking with laughter and so were they, tears streaming down her face as she struggled against them, and then as one they released her and grinned as she scurried into a corner, breathless and still laughing.

“That is _not_ amusing, that is torture,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She pointed at Angel. “Kill them,” she ordered.

He shrugged. “Gladly,” he said, and moved to leap on Gunn who held his hands up in surrender.

“No way, come on, man, I gotta get some sleep,” he said, sighing heavily and stumbling toward the door. “I’ll see you guys tonight.” He disappeared out into the day.

Spike grabbed Angel’s hand. “C’mon, love,” he said, arching one eyebrow. “Told you I got plans for you.”

Angel groaned in faux frustration but followed after Spike. “See you guys later,” he said to Wesley and Illyria, grinning as Spike dragged him away.

Wesley turned to Illyria and kissed her soundly before she could say anything. “Listen to me,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m going to go home and I’m going to go to sleep and I’m going to dream of you the entire time, Illyria, of _you._ Then I’m going to come back this evening and kiss you more, all I can, I’m going to kiss _you_ , Illyria, over and over again.”

She wrapped her hands around his neck and smiled and blinked as tears formed in her eyes. “I cannot wait. And I cannot believe it.”

“Believe it,” he said fiercely, kissing her once more. “Believe it.”

***

Wesley walked into his apartment and looked around, and then almost by instinct, without thinking, he started taking Fred’s pictures off the walls and off the entertainment center and off the shelves and put them all in a box, except for one, a picture of her smiling brightly, giggling, one he had taken himself on of their few trips off alone together, a picnic in a park near Wolfram & Hart.

He smiled at her image fondly and ran his fingertips over her face, telling her he missed her and he loved her, thanking her for everything, and he wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking or his imagination or the truth, but he felt as if he had been given her blessing. He was surprised that the tears, when they came, didn't last as long and didn't hurt as much, and then he put the picture back where it had been, on the end table by the sofa, and the rest of the pictures he packed away, taping up the box carefully and stashing it in the closet, planning to put the photos in an album as soon as he got the chance.

He sighed and fell into bed, making sure to set the alarm so he wouldn’t miss the celebration that evening, and for the first time in a very long time he found himself looking forward to waking up.

He smiled as he fell asleep and when he finally did, he dreamt in blue.

***

End


End file.
